One More Night
by xxalexisurgodxx
Summary: "In the next second he found that he tasted Arthur everywhere, that he couldn't get away, and in the next he was drowning in exactly what kept him crawling back again and again." A quickie written because it wouldn't leave my head. One part. USUK. Titled borrowed from Maroon 5 song.


Recently somebody told me that their headcanon relationship for Alfred and Arthur was that which is described in the song "One More Night" by Maroon 5. I do love Maroon 5. And USUK. So I wrote a thing. Left it vague so you people have to use your imaginations.

In no way do I own Axis Powers Hetalia nor "One More Night" nor the lyrics to the song nor Maroon 5.

* * *

_I know I've said it a million times..._

Arthur had screamed and it was a sound he'd never forget; it was unlike anything he'd ever heard, painful and infuriating all at once. And Alfred didn't know how to handle it. He hadn't ever screamed like that before. Not at Alfred.

That was a lie. Another lie. Of course he had. But he was used to lies and lies inside lies and being lied to, so lying to himself wasn't all that different, was it?

Thick fingers tugged at the suffocating tie around his too-thick neck- thanks to the fucking bastard he had to get all his shirts tailored to enlarge the collar to fit around it comfortably- and Alfred grumbled down at the paperwork on his desk. His cobalt eyes strained against the dim office lighting, he had to get the damned bulbs fixed, and it served only as a reminder of those sticky, frantic nights in a completely different part of town, in a different part of himself that seemed to be slowly consuming the other, more rational, parts of him, manifesting, because the room with the rich cherry sheets and cold jars of cream was always dimly lit as well. One of the rooms, anyway. There were two, three, no, more than that.

With a growl of frustration at the tiny, indiscernible words on the paper (at least, indiscernible in his current state), Alfred twisted his hands in his thick golden hair. Many things about him were thick, at least, his "empty head" was, he couldn't forget that, for how many times had it been snapped at him in the biting accent, harsh and unforgettable?

And that was it. Alfred couldn't forget. Not him, not how it felt, none of it.

Alfred retreated to the bathroom to rub his eyes and wash his face, staring tiredly back at himself in the mirror, pointedly ignoring the red splotches peeking out from under his shirt collar. Trying to, anyway.

Part of him felt bad. Indecent. Horrible. Horrible for being the cause of another man's grief. Just a part of him. But it seemed to be winning tonight. And Alfred found himself giving in to his arms and legs, which drove his car in the direction he knew by heart. Alfred knocked three times on Arthur's front door, loosening his tie as he waited impatiently. His eyes widened slightly when it swung open to reveal Arthur himself, clad in a shower robe. Oh.

Must have just gotten out. His hair was damp. "What the fuck do you want?"

Ouch. "Only to talk," Alfred answered somewhat flatly.

"I'm not dressed."

Alfred scoffed. "I'm scandalized," he bit out.

"Big word for such a thick head."

"Last time I checked, you enjoyed thick heads."

Arthur leered up at him but gave no reply, and after being glared at for a little while, an unknown amount of time because neither of them cared enough to keep track, Alfred was allowed in. Right in the sitting room, he set down the bottle of wine he'd picked up on the way as Arthur locked up again and met him inside. The Briton glanced at the dark bottle but said nothing, instead removing the cork with the proper tool because he felt obligated to, though Alfred hadn't said anything. He took a seat on the couch next, and Alfred followed suit, flopping next to him.

A few moments of silence had them both on edge. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"I'm asking you, you're the one that knocked on my door," Arthur snapped.

"Right," Alfred managed, but silence enveloped them again. It was maddening, really. The ticking of the clock that Alfred knew hung on the wall in the kitchen. The low hum of the television in the other room. The fact that Arthur was barely wearing anything. Weren't bath robes supposed to be longer than that? Did he hike it up on purpose? Probably not. His thighs, what a tease, how much he suddenly desired to run his hands along their insides, pinch him hard, rip that bath robe away and give in. Feel it.

"I wanted to..."

"To what?"

"To know..." Alfred paused. Arthur visibly twitched, though why, Alfred couldn't know. Dark cerulean eyes followed the man's movements as he scooted closer and leaned forward to reach the wine bottle, wrapping his pale fingers around its neck and taking a long sip. Classy.

"It's dry," Arthur said with a grimace as he set it down.

"What were you expecting?"

"Dunno."

Arthur had moved a noticeable amount closer in reaching for the bottle. Their legs almost touched now, and had Alfred not been wearing long pants he'd probably have been able to feel the hair there graze his skin. It was light, actually, and not very noticeable, both of them had light hair on their bodies, though it darkened as it thickened below the belt. The thought had Alfred suppressing a shiver.

"Why did you bring me wine? That's unlike you."

It was Alfred's turn to grimace. "Is it? Do you know me?"

That seemed to strike a funny chord. "Are you going tell me why you're here or not?" Arthur asked sharply. His fingers dug themselves into the cushion on which he sat, making him appear anxious or restless or a combination of the two.

Alfred's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Yeah," he muttered, but his momentary anger died, and he was transfixed. Arthur was staring at him, and he couldn't help but stare back, his eyes green and alluring and ever so piercing. His gaze was a powerful one, that said so many things in one instant, but, ah, that was only half the time, when it could be read. Now was not one of those times. When composed, Arthur had impeccable control of his facial expressions.

Intimacy had given Alfred the opportunity to learn to read his body instead. It was almost always a dead giveaway, Arthur's body language was loud and clear. It was tense, leaning, restless, unsettled. His fingers twitched again, caught in the corner of Alfred's eyes. He watched as Arthur uncrossed his legs. That fucking robe. Those lips. He could have sworn Arthur had just bitten his bottom lip, pulling it taught, exposing his teeth for just an instant, and god damn it all because Alfred was on him in the next instant.

The couch cushions were lumpy and narrow but he didn't care, and he assumed Arthur didn't either for how cool arms snaked around his shoulders and cold hands curled along his burning neck, pulling him down hard to press their lips together desperately, frantically. In the next second he found that he tasted Arthur everywhere, that he couldn't get away, and in the next he was drowning in exactly what kept him crawling back again and again. Alfred couldn't decide if it was like an addiction or something more benevolent, or, perhaps, if he wanted it to be something more benevolent.

He shivered as his jacket was ripped away and thrown aside, and then his tie and his glasses, and then his shirt buttons; Arthur wasted no time ripping them open, and at once there were hands on his chest. They trembled; Alfred had the sudden urge to steady them, but he ignored it, instead going for the tie of Arthur's robe, easily pulling the loose knot undone.

But that was as far as he got, because suddenly his face stung like hell and Arthur was standing beside the couch. "Get out... Alfred Jones, get out," he snarled, retying his robe.

"Y-You can't be-" Alfred began angrily, but Arthur cut him off, repeating his previous demand. And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed upstairs, probably to the master bedroom, a room to which the door locked up tight. Alfred knew this very well.

This was nothing new. Alfred slouched against the sofa, disappointed and annoyed and... was that guilt swirling in his stomach? No way. He refused to believe it. But he couldn't tear his eyes from the place Arthur had been standing. And there was more of that feeling. It couldn't be guilt. Could it?

Alfred found himself absently buttoning up his shirt. With a sigh he quit that and groped around a little for his glasses, which he found on the coffee table upside down. He set them on the bridge of his nose and refocused on the stairs.

It was all he could do to not take them three at a time. Alfred found himself at the locked door on the second floor at the end of the hallway. Nothing could be heard from the other side. Though Alfred wasn't sure if that was because of the thick wood, or if it truly was silent.

"Arthur!" He took a chance.

There was rustling on the other side. "Wh-What?"

"Unlock the door."

"It's... not locked."

Indeed it wasn't. Alfred wrapped a hand around the ornate metal knob and pushed the door open to find Arthur standing at the foot of his bed. He looked slightly disheveled, but otherwise normal. But it was never that simple.

Alfred closed the door behind him and, ignoring how Arthur tensed in his peripherals, looked around curiously.

"What do you want? I said... get out..." Arthur muttered, but there was no bite to it, only a sad waver.

Alfred persisted. "I heard ya."

Arthur scowled. "You're going the wrong way then, idiot."

"Why are you shaking?"

"I'm not!"

Alfred was in front of him now, and he took Arthur's hands. "You are. I feel it."

There was no answer. Arthur hadn't tried to pull away yet, but was no longer looking at him. Alfred sighed gently and pulled the Briton into another kiss; he was surprised to find it returned forcibly, desperately, by quivering lips. Wet lips.

"You were-?"

"Shut it."

Alfred hoisted Arthur up onto his arms so he could dump him into his bed, kissing him again, deeply, but only for another moment before his hands found the knot of Arthur's robe and pulled it free again- no slap came. He lowered his lips to Arthur's navel and kissed the hot skin sensually, dipping his tongue inside, pushing the material of the robe away, sinking down into him. Arthur's body tensed and shook beneath him, moving with him. Alfred looked up to find the Briton's eyes closed and lips parted, taking shallow breaths.

"Do it. I need it."

"I thought you wanted me to leave."

"No, I want you."

Not what he'd been expecting to hear from Arthur. But he wasn't about to complain.

"How? Where?"

"Everywhere."

Had he missed Alfred as much as Alfred had missed him? Sure seemed like it.

They knew every spot, every angle, every inch of each other, every freckle, every scar. And sex was always emotional when it came to the two of them. As much as Arthur hated the vulnerability, and as much Alfred didn't show much deep emotion most other times, it always happened that way, they coaxed it out of each other. Groans and gasps and tears later, Alfred let himself sink into the bed in the glorious afterglow, leaning into the lusty kisses Arthur laid on his neck, shivering as warm fingers drew circles on his chest. They weren't done, he could sense that. He licked his tingling lips.

"I can't keep away from you."

Arthur chuckled lightly into his skin. "Then don't."

_... but I'll only stay with you one more night._


End file.
